Charming the Prince

by Teresa Medeiros

  Bannor gave him a narrow look.

  Hollis dared to meet that look. “If you had seen the heartless manner in which her family treated her while we were waiting for the banns to be read, you would have done the same. Her father ignored her. Her stepmother disdained her. Her brothers and sisters ordered her about as if she was no better than a slave. And her stepbrother ...” Hollis shook his head, his mouth thinning to a grim line. “I cared naught for the look in his eyes whenever they lingered upon her.”

  The thought of such a delicate treasure being ill used made Bannor want to slam his fist into the wall. Made him long to march upon this Rufus of Bedlington and burn his keep to the ground. Made him yearn to pound that lecherous stepbrother of hers until he begged for mercy.

  “Did they beat her?”

  “I think not. ‘Twas her spirit that was bruised by their lack of kindness, not her flesh. Bruised, but not broken.”

  Bannor had caught a glimpse of that spirit when she’d thrust wee Mags back into his arms and slammed the chariot door in his face. During the war, he’d grown so accustomed to everyone scurrying to obey his commands that he’d been startled by an urge to applaud her defiance.

  He should have followed his warrior’s instincts and worn armor to their first meeting—a helm to shield him from her beauty and a breastplate to protect his heart.

  He raked a hand through his hair. “I trusted you to find me a wife who would not tempt me to get her with child, and you bring me a woman who makes me think of nothing else. Just how long do you think ‘twill be before her body begins to ripen with my seed? A fortnight? A sennight? A night?”

  Hollis brightened. “Perhaps you should consider a vow of celibacy. I’ve no doubt God would find it a most impressive sacrifice, much more pleasing in His eyes than if you had wed some stout fishwife with a mustache.”

  Bannor planted both palms on the table, looming over his steward. “If you’d care to keep your tongue, perhaps you should consider a vow of silence.”

  Hollis snapped his mouth shut.

  Bannor straightened, shaking his head. “I fear there’s only one way to undo this wretched mischief you’ve done.” He went to the door. But he did not open it until after he’d looked furtively out the window and determined that the children should be safely abed.

  “Where are you going?” Hollis demanded.

  “To inform my bride that a terrible mistake has been made. To tell her that we must petition Edward for an annulment before the union can be consummated.”

  Hollis rose to his feet, drawing himself up to his full five feet nine inches. “I cannot bear the thought of her returning to live in such squalor and neglect. If you don’t want her, then I’ll keep her for my own wife.”

  Bannor tried to imagine Hollis stroking his bride’s creamy skin, Hollis sifting his fingers through her raven curls, Hollis tickling that delectable upper lip of hers with his mustache. He could not have said what his expression was in that moment, but his steward took a fearful step backward.

  “I appreciate your noble offer, Hollis, but I could never ask you to make such a terrible sacrifice.” The sarcasm drained from his voice, leaving it somber with regret. “If Lady Willow does not wish to return to her father’s household after the annulment is granted, then I shall escort her to the sisters at Wayborne Abbey. ‘Tis the only fit refuge for such a woman.”

  It pained Bannor to imagine a woman as desirable as Willow devoting herself to a life of pious virtue, but ‘twas preferable to the thought of another man enjoying her.

  As he turned to go, Hollis said softly, “Was it not you who claimed that when I returned to Elsinore with this woman, she would be your wife in the eyes of God?”

  Bannor hesitated, his friend’s rebuke piercing his armor of resolve like the tiny blade of a misericorde. “Then I can only pray that He will forgive me for what I am about to do.”

  ———

  Willow never would have thought that she would miss Harold’s whining or Beatrix’s imperious commands, but as she gazed around the bedchamber, the unfamiliar hush unnerved her. Once she had longed for silence and solitude—for a few precious moments to think and dream. Now that she was alone at last, she was afraid to do either.

  A curious peek behind the bed curtains did nothing to ease her fears. The sable pelts had been folded back and the linen sheet sprinkled with velvety rose petals, confirming her dark suspicion that Lord Bannor intended to waste no time in getting his brat on her.

  After shrugging out of her cloak, she lifted the linen napkin on the table. A mincemeat pie sat on a silver plate, still warm to the touch. Nibbling its flaky crust, she wandered into a curtained alcove to discover not a chamber pot, but the decadent luxury of an actual privy. The queenly throne was outfitted with a wooden seat and surrounded with fresh handfuls of straw. She barely resisted the childish urge to yell “Halloo” down its murky shaft.

  An ornate cupboard had been set against the wall opposite the bed. Willow swallowed the last of the pie and approached it. The rearing stag carved into its door seemed to leer at her, his mighty antlers a threat to any maiden who dared to trespass upon the secrets he guarded.

  “ ‘Tis a wonder Lord Bannor didn’t choose a rutting stag for his coat of arms,” she muttered darkly.

  As the cupboard creaked open, she braced herself, half expecting to find the crumbling bones of Lord Bannor’s most recent wife. But its silk-lined interior yielded only a silver comb and a chemise woven of a sendal so fine she could see her splayed fingers through two layers of the stuff.

  Its very existence invited fondling. But as Willow held the garment up to her chest, testing its length against her own, ‘twas not her hands she saw caressing the gossamer silk, but a man’s hands—their backs dusted with crisp, dark hairs.

  Cursing her vivid imagination, she dropped the chemise and scuttled backward. Her heel caught on an uneven board, sending her tumbling through the bed curtains. The feather mattress swallowed her up in one hungry gulp. The bedframe’s leather springs creaked madly as she struggled to escape before Lord Bannor discovered that she’d stumbled right into his perfumed trap.

  ———

  Bannor’s determined strides did not slow until he reached the foot of the winding stone staircase that led up to the south tower. The dismay he’d felt at confronting his children was only a twinge compared to the panic roiling inside him now. He’d challenged the grim specter of death without flinching too many times to count, but the prospect of facing one willowy slip of a girl iced his palms with sweat and made his heart thud with dread.

  He was afraid not so much of her as of himself. Every time he’d taken a brief respite from the war and climbed these very steps to visit the bed of one of his wives, a babe had been born nine months later. As much as it galled him to admit it, he was no different from his father in that respect. No lord of Elsinore had ever been able to touch a woman without getting her with child. And Bannor feared that once he started touching this woman, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

  He marched up the stairs, resolved to explain to this Lady Willow that his steward had made a terrible, if well-intentioned, mistake. He had just reached the landing when the door crashed open and his bride came flying from the chamber.

  Bannor made an instinctive grab for her, hoping to keep them both from tumbling headlong down the stairs. As he caught her, she jerked up her head and he found himself gazing deep into her dark-lashed eyes.

  He expected her to be startled. He did not expect her to let out a scream that curdled his blood in its veins and sent him staggering backward with an unmanly yelp of his own.

  Six

  Willow backed away from the towering stranger who was now her husband, the echo of her scream still ringing in the narrow stairwell.

  Even as she averted her eyes and clapped a protective hand over her stomach, she knew she was being absurd. She had ten siblings. She wasn’t so foolish as to believe a man could make his babe quicken within a woman’s womb
simply by gazing into her eyes. Yet how to explain that dart of lightning she’d felt deep in her belly at the precise moment their eyes had met?

  She stole a sidelong glance at Bannor. He wore only an ivory linen shirt—belted to flare over his lean hips— black hose, and leather calf boots. With his shirt unlaced at the throat to reveal a dark V of chest hair and his hands resting on his hips, ‘twas almost possible to believe him capable of such wicked sorcery. Willow had always thought blue eyes were cold and soulless, but this man’s eyes crackled with passion, especially with the raven wings of his brows arched over them like forbidding storm clouds.

  “Sweet Christ in heaven, woman!” he thundered. “Are you trying to break my neck or yours?”

  Willow shifted her hand from her belly to her heaving chest, still avoiding his eyes. “Forgive me, my lord. You startled me.”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “Not nearly as much as you startled me. Just where were you headed in such haste? Is the tower afire?” His eyes narrowed. “Has that naughty son of mine tossed another stinkpot into the privy shaft?”

  Embarrassed to admit she’d been panicked by nothing more than a feather mattress and a nest of rose petals, Willow shook her head. “ Tis a habit of mine to take the night air. I was simply going for a ... a stroll along the battlements.”

  His left eyebrow shot up. “Without your cloak?”

  “How foolish of me,” Willow replied, seizing the opportunity to escape. “I’ll go fetch it this very moment.”

  She darted for the chamber, but Bannor followed, his challenging gaze warning her that he had no intention of having a door slammed in his face for the second time in that day.

  As Willow yielded to allow him grudging entry, they were both forced to step over one of the sable pelts that littered the floor. Half the bed curtains had been torn clear from their moorings, revealing rumpled sheets and scattered pillows.

  Bannor sauntered over to the bed and plucked a downy white goose feather from what appeared to be a fatal gash in the mattress. He held it up for her perusal.

  “Had I a more jealous nature, I might be tempted to check beneath the bed and see if one of my bolder squires was lurking there.”

  “I took a nap,” Willow lied. “I’m a restless sleeper.”

  “So I gathered.” He squatted to retrieve a fallen rose petal, shaking his head. “Fiona’s been at it again, hasn’t she? When she’s not playing mother hen to whatever chick needs her the most, the woman’s a shameless champion of romance.”

  “A trait you do not share?”

  The crumpled bloom fell from his fingers as he straightened. “I’m a warrior, my lady, not a sentimental old Irishwoman.”

  The boldness of his gaze coaxed another flutter from Willow’s belly. ‘Twas as if a pack of tiny butterflies was beating their wings against an irresistible breeze.

  Flustered, Willow fumbled beneath the scattered bedclothes. “I was sure I left my cloak right here.”

  Bannor frowned. He couldn’t help noticing that Willow was avoiding his eyes. She’d shown no such shyness earlier. Perhaps she regretted her defiance and feared his reprisal.

  The next time she stole a fearful glance at him, he leaned against one of the bedposts and offered her the boyish smile that had been known to ease the fears of even the most timid maiden.

  It had the opposite effect on Willow. She paled as if he had struck her, then scowled down at the floor. Perplexed, Bannor captured her chin in his hand and tilted her face toward him. Had her eyes not fluttered shut, he might have been able to resist the temptation to stroke his thumb across that petal-soft rosebud of a lower lip.

  “Why do you tremble so, my lady?” he murmured.”Have I so fierce a countenance as to make you cower at my glance?”

  Her eyes flew open. Bannor was gratified to find not fear, but defiance, glittering in their depths. “Perhaps I’m simply in danger of falling beneath the spell of your legend. After your maidservant had finished describing your rather gruesome habit of ripping off men’s heads with one hand, she warned me that you could get me with child simply by gazing into my eyes.”

  He cocked one eyebrow. “And you believed her?”

  Willow stiffened. “I should say not. Contrary to the manner in which I’m presently behaving, I’m not a simpleton.”

  “Good. Because I can assure you that I’d have to use both hands to rip off a man’s head.” When her pursed lips failed to soften into a smile, he added, “As for getting you with child, I could never hope to accomplish such a feat with a mere look. I’d have to follow my glance with a wink or...” his gaze drifted of its own volition to her mouth, “... perhaps even a kiss.”

  “Do you mock me, sir?”

  “Never,” he said softly.

  When Bannor realized his thumb was once again straining toward her lips, as if hoping to coax forth the smile his jests had not, he released her. He paced across the tower, trampling the fallen rose petals beneath his boots.

  How best to spare her pride? he wondered. How best to inform her that she was not destined to be his bride, but Christ’s?

  He swung around to face her. “I’m afraid Fiona spoke in haste, my lady. For I cannot get you with child at all.”

  Willow’s lips curved in a brief, but dazzling smile.

  “Have you suffered some grievous wound? Sir Hollis assured me that you returned from the war with all your parts intact. All your significant parts anyway.” Her sympathetic frown didn’t quite hide the shy downward dart of her gaze. Bannor felt himself harden as if she’d caressed him with more than just her eyes. “Of course, perhaps Sir Hollis doesn’t consider—”

  Bannor held up his hand, hoping to silence her before she gave him yet another reason to murder his steward. “I can assure you, my lady, that my significant parts are not only intact, but in full vigor.” Fuller than he would have liked at the moment, he thought grimly, thankful for the generous cut of his shirt.

  An unmistakable grimace of disappointment flickered across Willow’s face.

  Bannor stepped closer to peer into her face. “You are a most perplexing creature. I’ve never had a woman recoil with horror at the prospect of bearing my child.”

  “Obviously,” she murmured, a rueful smile flirting with her lips.

  “Should I be offended or merely curious? Don’t most women believe as the Church does, that the creation of offspring is God’s divine purpose for marriage?”

  “If that is so, my lord, then you must be a very devout man indeed.”

  Bannor was taken aback. He had not expected to find his bride’s wit as irresistible as her beauty.

  “I suppose children can oft be considered a blessing,” she added, “but there are women who choose to wed for other reasons. Security. Rank. Riches.” She ducked her head and slanted him an engaging glance. “Love.”

  Bannor gave a scornful snort. “I know naught of love, my lady. Only of war.”

  “You must have once loved the lady Mary and the lady Margaret.”

  His brow furrowed. “I bore a great and most tender affection for both my wives. I chose them for all the virtues a man most admires in a woman and strove to be the most devoted husband I knew how to be. But love?” He shook his head. “Love is an affliction to be suffered only by fools and lads.”

  “You were a lad once.”

  “And a fool as well.”

  Willow turned away from his cynical smile. As she stretched her hands toward the flames on the hearth, their crackling cheer failed to warm her.

  “We’ve spoken of the reasons a woman might choose to wed. But what about a man?” She turned back to face him. “What about you, my lord?”

  It was Bannor’s turn to avoid her eyes. He paced to the window, then back again, stroking the hint of beard that shadowed his jaw. “ ‘Twasn’t precisely a wife I was seeking.”

  Willow folded her arms over her chest. “ Tis the usual outcome, when a man plights his troth to a woman and has his steward stand before the priest
and make his vows for him.”

  “I’m well aware of that. But I had a more pressing need of a mother. Not for some child yet to be born, as Fiona might have led you to believe, but for the children I already have. Someone to care for them.”

  Willow managed to keep all but the faintest trace of bitterness from her voice. “Then I suppose you chose the right woman. I all but raised my ten siblings.”

  “So my steward assured me. But I must confess that, when I sent Sir Hollis to seek out a bride for me, I expected him to bring back someone less... well, more...” Bannor never had any trouble barking commands at his men, but his eloquence deserted him in the face of Willow’s unblinking gaze. “Someone who wasn’t quite so... so...”

  “Me?” she offered.

  “Exactly!” he shouted, a smile breaking over his face.

  “So you are suggesting that we do not suit.”

  Although Willow’s expression did not betray so much as a flicker of reproach, Bannor’s relief quickly faded to consternation. Hoping to soothe the sting of his clumsy words, he gathered her hands into his own.

  And froze before he could speak.

  Had he not been gazing into Willow’s exquisite face, he would have sworn he was holding the hands of a peasant. Roughened and chapped, they sported nearly as many calluses as his own. He must have betrayed himself with a downward flicker of his eyes, the ghost of a pitying wince, for she tugged her hands away from his, but continued to meet his gaze with a pride as unflinching as any he had faced on the battlefield.

  Bannor knew then that he could not bear to strike that pride a mortal blow. He could not send her back to her family against her will or imprison her behind convent walls. He briefly entertained the notion of allowing Hollis to keep her as his wife, but his mind rejected the image of Willow in his steward’s arms before it could fully form.

  Bannor hadn’t earned his reputation as a master strategist on the battlefield and the chessboard for naught. Perhaps there was a way to make her believe she was still mistress of her own fate. If he could somehow goad her into spurning him, she could depart from Elsinore with both her pride and her innocence intact.